


You've Consumed My Waking Days

by wtvoc



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Hamilton - Freeform, Lieutenant Duckling, prompted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-05 03:11:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5358944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtvoc/pseuds/wtvoc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>tumblr prompted with a hamilton lyric: "I need you to write me a lieutenant duckling fic set to "you won't be an ocean away, you'll only be a moment away" only less painful than the one you already wrote."</p>
            </blockquote>





	You've Consumed My Waking Days

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dark__swan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dark__swan/gifts), [alchemystique](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alchemystique/gifts).



> posting here for dark__swan, who is feeling a mite bit poorly. feel better, bby!

**You’ve Consumed My Waking Days**

Princess Emma attempted to remain calm and collected as the salver was passed to her at the breakfast table.

“A letter for the princess,” sniffed Leroy. He regarded her carefully as he stood behind Mother, giving Emma a toothy grin as she slowly reached out for the thick envelope. It was addressed to “HRH Princess High-and-Mighty, Fairest in All the Realms and Beyond, She the Worthiest of an Unworthy Cad.” Emma could feel her dimples forming as she tried to suppress a smile, simply taking her letter and tucking it away in the folds of her dress for later perusal and away from prying eyes.   


It had been a while since she’d received a letter from Killian and even longer since she’d laid eyes on him; he left for the sea the day after her eighteenth birthday, his wide and exuberant grin the only thing keeping her from stamping her foot in petulance because he was leaving. He was her elder by three years, a man now; while she understood (or tried to understand) why he wished to find his own fortune on the open water, she did _not_ understand Mother’s continued insistence that young ladies ought not write to young men to whom they were not engaged, even if the queen still allowed it.

“It’s only Killian, your majesty,” Emma had mumbled, knowing full well why such a stricture was necessary, but it was true. Killian, while not a member of the court, had always been a good friend. He was excellent at squiring her around and keeping the men vying for her attention at bay, he was the best storyteller she’d ever met, and he never once teased her for having to be a lady. The first time they’d met had been on a bright and sunny day at the stables; she had mistaken him for a stable boy and haughtily insisted that he saddle her horse. He had obliged after goggling at her a moment, his easy grin and “certainly, your high-and-mightiness,” angering her beyond reason. How dare he! She may have been a mere twelve years of age, but she was still his princess, and he was hers to command!  


When she’d eventually learned that he was the son of one of the more prominent merchants in town, Emma’s embarrassment knew no bounds. Father had been aghast when he’d learned of her gaffe; Mother had insisted she apologize. And she knew she ought, she was a princess of the realm, and though not yet capable of ruling on her own, still– she had to lead by example. It was her duty as the future ruler, and she did not wish to disappoint her parents. The thought of apologizing to the older boy rankled her, however. If only he hadn’t smirked at her so!

When Emma approached him at the ball later that evening to make her apology, she nearly faltered. The boy she’d mistaken for a stable hand was no longer in his rumpled traveling clothes, having just returned from a trip abroad; he was tugging at his cravat and looking uncomfortable but… _good_ was the only word for it. No dirt smudged on his cheek, his cuffs at his wrists and not rolled to his elbows. His hair was no longer disheveled, even if he looked as if he itched to run his hand through it as he’d done when Emma had first approached him. With his well-cut clothing, his hair combed to a semblance of respectability and his gloves pristine and white, he almost looked like a gentleman. Perhaps in a few years when he was taller and even more handsome, he would. She nearly ran.

Then he turned and saw her, and she felt that same indignant rage from their first meeting fill her anew. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he grinned, and he winked at her. Winked! He swept into a low, overstated bow, and she nearly rushed over simply so she could stomp on his toe. 

But no, Emma had a duty to perform; stiffening her back and clasping her hands at her middle, she approached him at a stately, ladylike pace as had been instilled in her since she learned to walk. 

“Mr. Jones, I believe.”  


“Aye, your highness. Killian, if you want to know the truth.”   


“I do not.”  


“Alas, I’m afraid it’s still true.” He dropped his grin and looked at her seriously, and Emma had the disconcerting feeling he was reading her mind, so she schooled her features into a placid smile and held out her hand. She felt proud of herself; it was the first royal ball she was allowed to attend, and she felt beautiful in the gown chosen for her, despite its high neck, the gloves past her elbows, and the corset digging into her ribs. She felt like a true lady, and she would act the part.  


Mr. Jones (it seemed such an odd thing to call this laughing boy, this almost-man with twinkling eyes and a smile full of mischief) took her hand and leaned over, pressing his thumb to her knuckles and brushing his lips there as custom dictated. She smiled, then; he was treating her like a real lady, and she thought it wonderful, if not a bit silly. She wasn’t a lady, not yet; a princess, yes, but not quite grown up. 

His solemn and somehow still-laughing deference softened her a bit; she straightened her back as she took her hand away and said, “I owe you an apology, sir. It was horribly rude of me to assume you were a stable boy, and even if you were, I ought not have spoken to you in such a boorish manner.” There. Her duty performed, she awaited his response so she could return to her mother’s side and continue to watch the dancing.

He looked at her thoughtfully, for far longer than she thought strictly necessary. He then pressed his lips together and nodded slowly.

“All right. I accept your apology. But it isn’t necessary, love. I mean, your highness. Perfectly understandable, actually. I was rumpled and must’ve looked a fright, but I’d been at sea for nearly a year and was far too happy to be back home to bother with changing my clothes. Father insisted we see the king straightaway, so I–”  


“At sea!” Emma forgot that she had decided to be stiff and formal and grasped his wrist in her excitement. “Oh, do tell me all about it! Do you travel with your father? Have you been to Glowerhaven? Are there _really_ mermaids who try to sing men to their deaths as you approach the island?”  


He looked amused as Emma excitedly chattered away and before she knew it, the two of them were seated on the sides of the ballroom, Emma asking question after question about sailing and Killian answering all of her queries with wonderful and detailed descriptions of all of the things he had seen while traveling with his father.

The following day, Emma had sneaked out of her lessons and made her way down to the docks, looking for the brightly-painted ship that Killian had described to her with a slightly awed and very loving lilt in his voice. She found the ship– _the True North_ –and she smiled.

“Would you like to see her up close?” came Killian’s voice from behind her. She gasped and turned, beaming into the laughing eyes of her new friend. She was so excited she simply nodded; he took her hand, bowed over it quickly, and then led her aboard.  


When Emma returned to the castle far after the dinner hour, her parents were worried and furious. Mother softened a bit when Emma told them she’d been at the docks, her mother knowing that Emma yearned to travel to places far and wide; Father’s ire was only beginning once he discovered she had been there with a boy.

“It’s only Killian Jones, Father,” she had said sullenly and somewhat mutinously.   


“He is a young man, and you are the princess. He isn’t ‘only’ anything.”  


Emma had scoffed at that, understanding full well that young ladies (specifically young princesses of the realm) were not supposed to go anywhere with a young man unaccompanied, but she did not see why she could not be on a ship that was docked and in full view of anyone walking by.

Eventually, the Queen and Prince Consort would relent, provided Emma had a chaperone and no longer sneaked away; Emma was just fine with that arrangement, meeting the _True North_ whenever it would arrive at Misthaven Harbor, returning from faraway lands with the hold full of all sorts of interesting items. The first time Killian left she had seen him off, waving wildly and shouting for him to remember his promise of a gift, and remember he always did.

Killian would bring her things from the places he’d been: glowing salt from the volcanic islands of Karataka, a basket of silk worms from the Han Empire, a shabby brass lamp from Agrabah that was rumored to have once housed a _djinn_. And all the while when he was away at sea, they would write, their letters always finding one another, no matter how far he traveled. Killian would write to Emma of the wonderful adventures he had learning the merchant’s trade, how much he admired his brother Liam, how to command a ship, and she would write to him about her studies, how much she hated the sheer number of petticoats required of court dress, and the best of the terrible gossip that lined the castle walls. 

It was the best friendship she had ever had. Killian was both terribly amusing and kind, but he was also able to help her understand when people confounded her so and how to best resolve a sticky situation. She loved it best when he was home, brief as those interludes tended to be; He was an excellent storyteller, able to make even the most fantastical details believable and the most boring of castle life bearable. It was something he did well both in person and on paper, and he taught her much about life in other lands. Emma in turn told him all about life at court, that it took more than a birthright to be honorable, and which courtiers to steer clear of and which to endeavor to impress. After five years of this, the result was that Emma wished to see the world and Killian wished to stay home and live the life of a gentleman.

On her eighteenth birthday, he announced to her in person that the way to achieve that was to join the Royal Navy. His father had enough money to purchase a commission; he left the morning after her birthday celebration.

She nearly stopped speaking to him right then and there.

“You could get hurt,” she told him.  


“I won’t. I’m an excellent swordsman.”  


“I’m better.”  


“Aye, that I know.”  


“Do take care not to get run through by some dastardly pirate, Lieutenant.”  


“Do take care not to let that rake of a town doctor make advances, Princess.”  


“I rather think he learned his lesson last time,” she said wryly, enjoying his responding laughter and the knowing gleam in his eye, the shared memory of Emma quite marvelously punching that Dr. Whale square in his nose one of the better adventures they’d had. It had been one of the few times Killian was home, a ball in his father’s and brother’s honor when they had opened up trade with Agrabah.  


“All the same. I do not want to come home to find that you’ve married a terrible excuse of a commoner, my lady.”

“As if I would get married without you,” she scoffed. He looked directly at her then, his eyes full of… something. Every once in a while he would look at her in this steady manner, and it was the only thing about him that Emma found indecipherable. She never could quite understand what it was he was telling her in those moments, but she did understand that he was trying to say something without ever uttering the words. She knew, however, that those looks always accompanied declarations akin to Killian’s loyalty, and she always felt warm and happy afterward, if not somewhat uncomfortable.  


The following morning, the entire royal family met at the docks to see the sailors off, the maiden voyage of the _Jewel of the Realm_ quite an occasion for their kingdom. The standard fanfare was involved for any royal function, but Emma did not feel any of it. She was too distraught.

For you see, she had been in love with Killian for a while, ever since she was sixteen and had seen him kissing a bar wench down at the tavern. She’d heard the _True North_ was back, and she’d run with much excitement down to the docks to see what her friend had brought her.

Unrelenting heartache was the gift that time, but he did not know that. No, he seemed far too interested in the attentions of the tacky (exceedingly pretty and buxom) girl in his arms, and Emma had run back to the castle, feeling the sting of tears at the corners of her eyes. It did not take her long to understand why. Seething jealousy and disappointment filled her as she replayed the terrible scene over and over in her head, but she felt foolish. Of course Killian did not love her; he was her friend, nothing more, and true friends were not a thing princesses often had, at least not this princess. So Emma had wiped away her tears, splashed cold water on her face, and gone back down to the docks, determined to greet her friend as ever she had.

When he’d given her one of his wonderful, genuine smiles–the kind that lit his eyes and made the dimples crease through his new beard–she filled with both longing and despair, but she steeled herself against it. She approached her friend with haughty composure and held out her hand, just like on their first official meeting so long ago, and he’d laughed as he’d taken it, bussing her bare knuckles with his bare lips.

The image of Killian kissing that bar wench assaulted Emma as she watched him approach her that first time before he’d gone underway, and she had tried to summon up congratulations for him. As he chatted amiably with her parents– ever comfortable in the presence of royals, that Killian Jones– Emma could feel herself squirming. 

When the Queen and Prince turned to face his brother, who would be captaining the _Jewel_ , Emma stepped toward Killian and smiled; it did not reach her eyes. He must have sensed it for his own eyes softened as he took her hand.

“You will be far too busy being courted by princelings and making them dance like jesters to miss me overmuch,” he began. She smiled at that, but inside, she felt misery souring her stomach.   


“I have something for you,” he continued, his voice gentle, looking around for prying eyes before reaching inside his officer’s coat. He pulled out a letter, just like the ones he always sent when he was off sailing with his father.   


This time, Emma’s smile was genuine as she reached into a pocket sewn into her dress. She handed him her own letter, and he laughed in delight.

“’Tis improper for a young lady to correspond with a young man, I’ll have you know,” she said solemnly as he pocketed his letter.  


“Don’t read it, then,” he answered in challenge.   


But read it she did. 

Three more years of letter-writing passed; Emma waited impatiently day by day for a new missive to arrive; she attempted to detect a pattern to their timing, but it was always sporadic. In the beginning there was a letter a week; then weeks turned to months, and after three years and with the duties of a young lieutenant, Emma knew not to look for a letter every morning. Killian was far too busy making a name for himself to trifle with filling in his young, girlish friend on the doings of a man of the royal navy. And yet, every time a new letter arrived, she had to suppress her excitement because it meant he still thought of her.

The various remembrances of how Princess Emma and Lieutenant Jones began their correspondence flooded Emma in a sweet deluge of memory as she rushed back to her chambers to read his latest. She settled into the chaise near the fire, tucking her feet under her skirts as she savored the moment. She chuckled at the address, shaking her head fondly, muttering his ridiculous words aloud to herself. “HRH Princess High-and-Mighty, Fairest in All the Realms and Beyond, She Who is Far Too Worthy of an Unworthy Cad, indeed.” She wondered whether those who handled the letter on its long trip from wherever it was the _Jewel of the Realm_ was nowadays were scandalized by anyone addressing the Princess of Misthaven in such an impertinent manner.

 _My dearest, Emma_ his letter began. Her heart fluttered, and she pressed her fingers to her lips to feel her own smile. He had always begun his letters with ostentatious greetings, but lately they had simply been addressed  _My dearest Emma_. She’d forgiven him formality long ago, had insisted he simply call her “Emma” when it was just the two of them, and especially when in their letter writing. “My most dearest-est Princess” had turned to “My dearest Princess Emma” to simply “My dearest Emma.”  This letter had one simple addition, however; that comma. Was it an errant stroke from his pen? She held the letter up to her nose, trying to determine whether it was done with purpose. 

She sighed. Of course it wasn’t. She wasn’t his anything, other than his dear friend. Always it had been thus, and always it would be.

She tried not to let her yearning overtake her as she read the rest of the letter.

_My dearest, Emma–_

_I hate to say it, love, but my brother is a horse’s ass. It was the bosun’s birthday last night, and Liam let the grog flow. I perhaps imbibed a bit overmuch, but you know me, do you not? I can hardly say no when such celebrations are underway, especially in these uncertain times. My wonderful, loyal and true brother-Captain woke me this morning by playing his fiddle right above my face. I awoke with a start and bashed my head on the shelf above my bed, and that smarmy git of a brother of mine laughed and yelled a hearty, “Rise and shine, Brother!” Git. Ass. Terrible relation, I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve him. He made up for it by producing a rum cake at breakfast, however. Speaking of such things–do thank Mrs. Lucas for me, and remind her that there is a dashing young sailor waiting to marry her the moment she accepts one of my proposals._

_Now that the pleasantries are done with, let us discuss your quandary. I do believe that Lord Walsh would make for an excellent suitor, if simians are your thing. Do not laugh as you read this, highness, for I am quite serious; your children would be beautiful little monkey babies, far more pleasant than the monkeys that throw bananas from the trees and chatter incessantly on the tropical island of Fortuna. Your Lady Mother would be so terribly pleased, for monkeys are adorable, are they not?_

_In all seriousness, I have to say that I do not find Walsh very worthy. I once witnessed him being overly friendly with a servant at one of your parents’ balls. I do not abide by that sort of behavior, and I feel that he would be untrue. You deserve more than such a man, Emma. I know you said that you once said you could grow to love anyone, but I beg of you–not him._

_Perhaps you ought to wait for me to return so that I can approve all of your potential suitors from here on out. Your father would agree with me, of that I have no doubt; look how long it took for him to stop questioning my intentions! And still, I feel his narrowed gaze on me every time you and I are in the same room. As if a princess of the realm would have eyes for a commoner such as I!_

_Today we are for…well, I fear I cannot tell you. You would be far too upset were you to know the true danger we face day by day. War is brewing, I’m afraid; I do not wish to alarm you and want to strike out this entire paragraph, but I know that should something happen to me, you would scold my dead carcass and curse the name Jones for all eternity, never mind forgive me. What is it your Mother always says? ‘ _We always face difficulty with our chins up and our eyes clear, if not our hearts.’_ So I feel compelled to inform you that war is much closer than I know you have been told, and should something happen to me _ [unintelligible, scribbled out words] _that you are far more than a princess and a beautiful woman; you are a true lady, and the best friend a man could hope to have._

_I wish I could tell you these things in person. I know we are far too familiar when together, and not serious enough by far. But I wish you to know how much it means to me that a woman like you–and a princess, no less–would ever deign to remain friends with a lout like me. But alas, I cannot tell you these things to your face as you deserve. You are an ocean away. Why must you be an ocean away?_

_There, now I’ve gone and gotten all somber on you. Forgive me; the days are long, and I miss you and home terribly. I shall simply end this terrible letter by saying that I remain ever_

_Yours,_

_Lt. Killian Jones_

_  
_

_My dearest, Lieutenant–_

_You would not believe what Lord Walsh did. He tried to kiss me! I think he was drunk; it was at my birthday celebration (one-and-twenty years, can you imagine!), and I had walked to the balcony to cool down after dancing two hours’ straight. He came upon me quite unawares, and when I turned to scold him for being alone with me on the terrace, that’s when he leaned in. He must have thought my upturnt chin meant I wished for his advances rather than my gathering the fortitude to keep from kneeing him where it would do real damage; I fear you were quite right about his inappropriate behavior with ladies. I had to go back inside for fear of doing a murder, and I partook of far too much wine, so deep was my ire. Mother asked what ever was the matter, but I demurred, naturally. It would not do for the Queen to challenge one of her subjects to a duel, scoundrel or no. Oh, Mrs. Lucas made your favorite for the desserts–sugared berries over pound cake. I had requested it and she grumbled the entire time, telling me that I let “that Jones boy” have far too much sway over my tastes, so I simply kissed her cheek and passed along your hellos. She calmed significantly at that, asking whether you’d gotten the cakes soaked in rum she’d sent along._

_Mother has been relentless in trying to get her archery lessons to take, but I fear I’m stubbornly more inclined to the sword, like Father. The baby is fine; he has been colicky of late, and Father insists on being the one to calm him, much to Belle’s (did I tell you about the new nanny?) chagrin. I took the little princeling with me for my archery practice with Mother yesterday, and that seemed to calm him down. Mother was_ so _delighted at the prospect that at least_ one _of her children would take after her. I do not know what she’s on about, I look much like her, as you’ve told me often enough, my eyebrows arching just so and my lips thinning in my displeasure. As both parts of my face so often do when in your company._

 _This very morning, Father informed me that war was brewing. He was so gentle and unwilling that I nearly wanted to laugh; I’m rather glad you warned me of it, else I would have been terribly worried at the tone in his voice and his obvious reluctance in sharing what was on his mind. He even stuttered when he said that the_ Jewel _would be going on an undertaking that was fraught with danger. I do believe he thought I would fall apart at the idea that my dearest friend might be facing Mortal Peril (for I could hear the capitalization in his voice). As if you could not defeat anything set before you! I told him so, and while he remained somewhat skeptical at my optimism, he seemed relieved that I took it well._

 _But do keep yourself safe, Kilian. You are quite right; I wouldn’t forgive you should something happen. So continue your heroic doings with this command from your royal princess in mind: I do_ not _give you leave to die. You are to return hale and whole and with a gift, as ever you have. I will not allow for anything else._

_Your high-and-mighty princess who remains_

_Eternally yours–_

_Emma_

  


Emma did not receive a response.

She tried not to think of it as the months passed. When she had turned twenty-one, she had officially assumed more royal duties, and her time was less and less hers, but still. She spent more and more time wondering what had happened to her friend, the man she was terribly in love with who was far too busy defending her kingdom to spare any thoughts for her.

News arrived one day that a tremendous battle had been fought and won; the _Jewel of the Realm_ would be returning, its crew being hailed as true heroes of the kingdom.

Emma awaited the day with feigned patience; inside she was dancing. Killian would be returning home, and while he was not hers, she was certainly his. The ocean would no longer separate them–for the short while he was home, at least. She would make the most of it, would spend as much time as possible in his company, if he wished it. She wondered if he was as anxious to see her as she was him.

The day the _Jewel_ arrived, Emma was out visiting a village that had been inflicted with a round of sickness. As she knelt on a floor feeding an old woman broth and ignoring the pains caused by such a stooped position, Emma heard a scuffle outside of the cottage. Wiping her brow, she smiled at the woman and tucked her in before going to see what was happening.

“The heroes! The heroes of Misthaven have returned!”  


Emma found herself running toward her horse before she was aware of the movement. _Killian_. She smiled, her sore back forgotten as she urged her mare to the docks.

Only Killian was not there when she arrived.

Captain Liam Jones bounded down the gangplank, his eyes scanning the crowd as if searching for someone as Emma jostled her way toward the ship. People gave way when they realized their princess was among them, stepping back and bowing; she barely acknowledged them in her haste to get to the ship, to Killian.

Liam’s eyes seemed grim the moment they met hers; he bowed quickly and came before her. When he spoke, there was urgency in his voice.

“He’s been hurt, your highness.” No greeting, no pretense. Liam was usually so correct in his address to her that Emma felt a sinking all the way down to her gut; if Liam was foregoing formality, then it must be dire. She felt numbness overtaking the sinking feeling.  


The Captain took her arm and led her to the side, nodding and smiling false at the various greetings and hearty slaps to his back.

“Oh, Liam,” she breathed. It was all she could get out as she looked at him.  


“The battle was…terrible,” he said softly, looking around to make sure none heard. “Killian was fierce and heroic, of course. But.” And here he looked down, avoiding her steady gaze. “He is alive, your highness. He had us drop him off over in Midastown. He… wanted me to give you this.” Liam handed her a letter, this one addressed simply “Princess Emma.” It was not written with the usual flair, nor on the usual paper; this envelope was thinner and made of parchment, the edges lined with gold.  


“Thank you, Captain,” she said absently, the letter burning her fingertips as she took it from him. She turned to go, needing to get back to the castle. Midastown was not far, no more than three days’ journey, two if she did not stop to sleep.   


“He does not want company,” she heard Liam call out as she walked away.  


“Too damned bad,” she muttered. She did not stop to see whether Liam had heard her.  


In the end, the journey took three days. Emma tried to push through it, only stopping to exchange horses and shovel food down her throat at each inn where she stopped. She had dressed plainly, in breeches and a coat pilfered from Leroy’s closet. She had to wrap a belt about her waist two times, but she did not care. Who could care about appearances when Killian needed her?

He might not want her, but he needed her. That much she knew.

She hadn’t even stopped to tell Mother or Father where she had gone; she’d simply left a note on their pillow saying “Killian is hurt and I must go to him.” She knew they would be angry but understanding. She figured Mother had known how Emma felt for years now, and Father had simply not seen what he did not wish to see. She wondered if Mother would explain it to him.

It wasn’t until she arrived at Midastown that Emma realized she did not know where Killian was, exactly. She felt foolish as she tied her horse in front of a tavern, wondering how to go about finding a man in a town so large. “I’m looking for a man who is injured, possibly in the royal blues of the Misthaven navy. Handsome beyond belief. Piercing eyes that smolder for untold time after they’ve laughed at something inappropriate you’ve just said. Arrogant, disarming grin. Have you ever seen such a man?”

It would not do. He sounded unreal. 

That’s when she remembered that she had his letter tucked down her shirt. She reached in and looked at it a moment, the neat penmanship almost taunting her in its simple address. “Princess Emma.” No cheeky adjectives, no light hand with the ink, as if written in a fit of amusement. Simply two words written across the thick paper, her name pressed into it as if trying to weigh down the letter beneath.

_Emma–_

_I’m afraid I did not keep myself safe, and I know you will be unhappy with me. Please, love. Do not try to find me. Were you here, I would be unable to resist the temptation of allowing you to comfort me, but I know you will be furious that I allowed myself to get injured. I cannot bear your displeasure, you know that. Not your real displeasure, anyway, and I fear you will be quite displeased with me when you see what I’ve gotten myself into. This is an injury of a permanent nature, and it is, to say the least, a real bitch to deal with. I’ll be completely honest, I do not wish for you to see me like this. I am cranky and morose. I suppose it will get better with time, but I fear I would make for terrible company for my princess. I will send word when I am much improved, and maybe with time you will not be so angry with me._

_Killian_  


  


“Such a scowl on a such pretty face,” tutted a voice from the door of the tavern. Emma looked up, putting on a much more friendly expression for the stranger. She was unknown in this land and did not wish to give herself away or cause notice by making faces at the local villagers.  


“Oh,” the man said as Emma neared. “If ye’ve got such a fancy letter, I reckon ye’ll be looking for the Golden Goose.”  


“You recognize this letter?”  


“Aye, lass. The place is down the road a-ways. The owner has ‘ad pretentions ever since the king touched his door and turned it to gold. Trims ev’rything in gold now, don’t you know. Even his stationery! And what does an innkeeper need with stationery, I’d like to know…” But Emma had stopped listening. It was unforgivably rude of her to leave while the man who’d answered her prayers was speaking, but she was filled with new urgency now that she knew where Killian was staying.  


In no time at all she was at the Golden Goose and it was just as the other man had said: the door was, indeed, gold. The lettering on the sign was gold, and the railings on the stairs as she ran up were gold. She burst through the gold door, looking around the assemblage of raucous people assembled there as if she would spot Killian on sight.

He was, of course, nowhere to be found, so she approached the barkeep and seated herself on a gold stool.

“Excuse me,” she said, trying to gain his notice. When he did not come right away, she pulled out a sack of coin and thunked it on the bar. That got his attention.  


“Yes, lass?”   


“I’m looking for–” _the handsomest man I’ve ever seen_ – “–a young man named Jones. He is about so high with blue eyes and he is injured–”  


“Aye, that one,” the barkeep scowled. “Pays on time but won’t leave his room, just demands rum and paper and refuses a cleaning maid. All day long, he keeps to himself, scuffling about. I told him if he has damaged anything he will pay, but he just asks for another bottle and more paper. He must be writing a novel, that one. Never seen a man need so much paper in my life.”  


“Which room?” she asked, ignoring the man’s continued grumbling. Her heart was beating ferocious fast. The man stuck his chin up and eyed her sack of coins. She slid it toward him and he grinned.

“I assume you’ll be his wife, then? Can’t be letting nice young ladies alone in rooms with gen’lemen and all.”  


“Of course,” she nodded, the corner of her mouth lifting in a smirk.  


“Of course,” he returned. Then after a moment, his hand slid beneath the bar and he produced a full bottle of rum. “It’s about time for his supper, anyway. May’s well be his wife that brings it to him. I’ll not be having any quarrels, mind. Don’t need no lovers’ spats disturbing the peace. We’re a respectable inn here. Last door on the left.” With that he chucked his chin toward the stairs and handed Emma the bottle. “Oh, do ye need to bring paper, d’you think?”  


“No,” Emma said as she turned. “He can tell me whatever it was he was trying to write in his letters to my face.”  


As Emma approached the door at the end of the hallway, she felt curiously blank. She had spent the last three days in a mad dash to get to him, but now that he was on the other side of a door that was mere steps away, she found she did not know what to say. He would be furious that she hadn’t heeded his wishes, but she did not give a damn. He was hurt. She had to make sure he was all right.

She reached the door, paused for breath, then raised her hand and knocked. 

There was scuffling and muttered cursing before the door was opened. Emma was overwhelmed by the unmistakable smell of a drunk man as Killian lurched into view.

“’Bout bloody time,” was the first thing he said to her in three years’ time.   


He reached out and snatched the bottle before he looked up to her face. She almost gasped when their eyes met. He looked…unwell. His eyes, usually so mirthful and full of laughter, were watery and had a haunted look. His beard was scruffy and unkempt; he was usually so fastidious about keeping it trimmed, but now it was thick across his jaw (and not wholly unappealing, if it weren’t accompanied by the gauntness of his cheeks). He was pale and his shoulders were stooped instead of straight and proud, his usual stance when addressing her.

He was wearing the simple clothing of a villager, no sign of his uniform in sight. It had been so long since she had seen him dressed as such that she felt she might not have noticed him in a crowd (and immediately dashed the thought, for she would know him anywhere). 

And still, he looked good to her. She could detect no sign of injury and felt relief wash over her; was it his head, perhaps? His leg? Had he limped over to the door and she simply could not see it with the way he was leaning out of the doorway, one hand holding the door open and one arm flush against the jamb?

“Emma,” he breathed. She quirked a smile at him, but still. She did not know what to say. Then he scowled. “What are you doing here?”  


“I know a summons when it’s not being said,” she retorted, pushing her way into his room. There were crumpled papers and empty bottles everywhere, and while it made her heart hurt, she smiled inwardly. If he really had been writing her letters and not knowing what to say, then she felt slightly better at the rebuff.   


She heard the door close behind her and thrilled inwardly; they had not been alone together since their first few meetings. Rounding on him, she began a harangue, hating the accusations she knew were coming, but she could hardly help herself. She missed him. And it hurt that he did not wish for her to see him injured; surely, it could not be _that_ bad?

“Your highness–”  


“Emma. I thought I was Emma to you.” _Your_ Emma.  


He sighed. “Emma, then. I simply…” He trailed off, not finishing his thought. Instead, he reached over to take the bottle of rum from her fingers, holding it by the neck and loosening the cork all in the same hand. He brought the bottle to his lips and took a deep pull, his throat bobbing in such a way that Emma was mesmerized by the movement, by the errant lines of scruff on his neck. He seemed so much older than she remembered, more of a man, and the difference between them hit her then. He was older than she, by three years. He had done and seen so much. And what was she? A sheltered, runaway princess, mooning after a boy who did not love her back. Who did not wish to see her. Who had locked himself away in a far-off town, trying to figure out what to say to her.

Was it because he going to tell her he did not wish to be friends anymore?

Suddenly, she did not wish to know.

Taking a deep breath, Emma decided to draw on some of the bravery that marked the queens of her kingdom. She thought of her mother, how she had single-handedly saved Misthaven from the machinations of the Evil Queen. She thought of all of the tales of bravery of the women in her family, and she silently prayed for some of that familial fortitude. 

Maybe Killian did not love her as she loved him, but he was still her friend. She hoped she had the courage to finally, truly accept that. 

She had to let him go.

“I simply wanted to see with my own two eyes that you were all right,” she said softly, not meeting his eyes. She did not see, therefore, how he took this information, whether he accepted it as the truth that it was, or whether he was still angry with her for defying his wishes. He had always done as she’d asked, and she suddenly saw with clarity that it must have been a blow to see her there, doing the one thing he had asked her not to do.  


No wonder he was so angry.

“I’ll go. Please forgive me; I simply wished…” _To save you_ , her mind silently added. But he would not like that, and besides. It was not as if he was dying. She suddenly felt silly, like the lovesick young girl that she was. “But Killian. I’m not sorry that I came. I would do it again. I _had_ to make sure you were all right. And…now I know, so I shall be going.” She stepped away and headed for the door, hoping that her tears would wait until she was back on the road. She did not want to manipulate him into guilt; she never wanted to control him, and as she walked away, she vowed she would never do so.  


“Emma, wait,” he sighed, and she could have cried, she was so glad to hear his words. “Love, I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’m not very good company right now; ‘tis why I did not wish for you to see me like this.” Emma closed her eyes briefly before turning, determined to make friends once again. If she could not show her love for him, the very least she could do was be his friend.  


He led her over to the one chair in the room, having to right it first. She sat down and smiled sardonically when he handed her his bottle. Taking a swig and managing not to wince as she swallowed, she handed it back and grinned at the assessing look he gave her. 

“I merely meant for you to hold it while I tidied up a bit. Why, princess–you’re a sot like me.”  


“What’s the matter, Lieutenant?” she grinned. “Think I can’t handle my rum?”  


“Oh, I’ve no doubt. I’m simply surprised you would swill it in such a manner. What would your mother say?”  


“Probably ‘pass the bottle, daughter,’” she retorted as she took it from him and swigged once again. He laughed then, his real laughter, and she felt worlds better at the sound. He was not _so_ very drunk, that much she could tell; as she eyed the empties in the room and the way he swayed, she wondered how inured he’d become to alcohol if he could drink so much and not seem affected. Again, she wondered what it was that was wrong with him.  


He sat at the edge of his bed, leaning back on his elbows and looking at her with his grin still in place. Emma tried not to notice the long lean lines of him, but it was difficult; she had first noticed his body when she was still a girl, but it hadn’t been until recently–from that first time she’d seen him kissing that bar wench–that she’d been aware of him. That there was power in his wiry frame, in the shoulders that framed him wonderfully. He was so _masculine_. Even in his current state, he was good to look upon. 

He raised his eyebrows, and she thought she detected a knowing glint in his eye as she met his steady gaze. _Damn, caught_ , she thought to herself, trying not to grin. Well, what of it? He was always talking about how dashing he was; could she help it that he was not wrong? She had eyes. She was allowed to look, if not touch.

She faltered a bit before asking him how he was, whether the fighting had been so terrible. Whether he would be returning to battle. And he, in turn, asked mundane questions of his own; it was not long before their old camaraderie returned, the two of them joking and laughing and sharing the bottle between them. Emma felt warm; whether it was the rum or the man before her causing the warmth, she did not know.

Killian stood after a fashion to light the lone candle sitting on the mantle where a fire burned low. He brought it over and set it on the desk next to her; he was so near she could smell a heady mix of leather and rum wash over her. 

He hovered above, his eyes slightly glassy with drink, and she imagined hers were the same. They stared at one another for a long moment, and just when she felt it building–felt a declaration forthcoming, felt that she was going to blurt out the words– _I love you, Killian_ –his eyes took on a deep blue wash of torment and he turned his back to her.

“I cannot bear it, Emma. What you must think of me. This…this has changed everything.”  


Did he know? She felt panic rise in her throat.

“I…I do not know how I can continue to be your…friend, not like this.”  


Emma was silent. She felt a distant lick of indignant ire, but her mind was mostly quiet. That was that, then. He knew. He knew she loved him, and he did not feel the same. She knew that, she _knew_ he did not love her, and still–it hurt. She felt that she ought to feel disappointment, but she felt nothing. Resignation, perhaps. She’d been resigned to it for years now; she was young yet. A princess, even. Men lined up to meet her; her future was bright. Who was Killian Jones?

 _The only one_ , the distant, indignant voice whispered. _A future without him is no future at all. It is not enough for me_. She chose to ignore it.

She had to get out of there. She did what she had come to do; she could go back home, and focus on her duties. Her family. Killian would simply be one soldier of many who defended her kingdom. 

Feeling a bleak determination set in, she stood from the chair, turning to face him with her chin turned up. _We always face difficulty with our chins up and our eyes clear, if not our hearts._

Emma began to hold out her hand but paused; Killian had turned to face her, his own chin turned up and his eyes clear as he met her steady gaze. She could see pain in his eyes, but there was something else–that look she had never been able to decipher. His eyes were dark and brimming with _some_ emotion, but still– she could not name whatever it was that made them so intense.

“I shall go, then,” she said stiffly, her heart screaming for him to ask her to stay.  


“Farewell, Princess,” he replied softly, his eyes still scanning hers, though she did not know what it was he wanted to see. He sighed after a moment, his head dropping as if in defeat. When he raised it again, the intense darkness was still there but softer, lesser; he lifted his hands to reach for hers and then the look of pain was back; dropping his left arm, he reached for her hand with his right and raised it to his mouth, this time touching her skin, his lips remaining pressed against the back of her hand for what should have felt a blissful eternity, but something was bothering Emma. She realized what had happened to him.  


“Killian,” she whispered. “Your hand.”  


He stiffened immediately, dropping her hand and turning to face the wall. 

“Nothing,” he muttered harshly. “’Tis nothing.”  


“Killian,” she intoned, her voice stern. She took a step closer, holding her breath as she stood mere inches from him. “Let me see.”  


“No,” he whispered. “I do not want you to see it.”  


“See what?” she said softly. Inside she was fit to burst. She knew, somehow, that things were not as they seemed. Could sense it, but did not know _why_.   


“Emma,” he warned, his voice steady and low. She imagined that were they enemies–were she one of the pirates he was charged with dispatching in service to the kingdom–that she might tremble at the threat inherent, at the unrelenting nature of the man who spoke with such warning in his voice. But she was no pirate; she was a woman who loved a man, and she was beginning to understand that he was not angry with her, but with himself. She had done nothing, but in his eyes– _he_ had. He’d gotten injured. When she commanded him not to.   


Did he blame himself?

She had to make it right.

She reached out tentatively, unsure how he would receive her touch, but she was determined not to leave things so uncertain. She grasped his left arm lightly, not letting go when he flinched and tried half-heartedly to pull his arm away. He did not yank away from her completely, however, and that told her much; mainly, that he was not averse to her touch. So, she wrapped her hand more firmly about his elbow, pulling slightly to get him to turn.

He seemed to do so willingly but reluctantly, putting his arm down but turning to face her. He stumbled somewhat, whether due to her proximity or the rum, and they both reached out to steady themselves on the other. Emma felt the thrumming of her heart as she looked up, realizing they were closer in body than ever they’d been, even when dancing; in fact, they were nearly embracing, they were so close.

“You hurt your hand.”  


“No,” he said softly, his eyes once again scanning hers, looking for something. She looked back at him, determined to make him see that whatever the injury, it would not change her feelings for him, even if he did not know the nature of those feelings. She could be his friend, no matter what.   


She would love him no matter what. 

He seemed to find what it was he was looking for, and he seemed surprised by it; she could see the corner of his mouth quirk slightly before dropping down to a slight frown; he sighed and released her, though he did not step away. Slowly, he raised his left arm, and it took every lesson in poise and grace that Emma had ever had drummed into her head to not gasp.

He had not hurt his hand; he had lost it.

_Oh, Killian._

How it must have hurt!

“My darling,” she whispered, utterly unable to help herself. She looked at him, not caring if she had just given herself away, but he simply continued to gaze at her, his eyes full of relief. And were she not mistaken, he was looking to see how she felt now that she knew, and it made her want to berate herself. Did he think so little of her? How poorly had she been treating him, if he thought she would think less of him for this?  


Then her mind turned instantly, images of how he could have sustained such an injury making her wonder whether it was in a duel or whether it was pirates or something worse, something that had threatened his life. And Emma got angry. She felt a boiling inside, a need to do something. She looked at him again and she felt demands pouring from her lips.

“What sonuvabitch dared? Did you kill him? Did you get revenge? If you did not kill him, I will, because _no one_ touches my–no one could _dare_ –”  


But she did not get a chance to continue with her foolish threats. Before she knew it, she was in his arms and he was kissing her, and he was laughing into her mouth. And she kissed him back. With all her heart, she kissed him back. She was laughing and then she was crying, helpless tears seeping out of the corners of her eyes as she felt love pouring from him into her and her into him. 

He tasted of rum; she knew she would always taste this moment with every sip of the stuff for the rest of her life, and she decided then and there that rum would be at every celebration she attended, at every occasion enjoyed for the rest of her days. And no matter the reason for celebrating, it would pale in comparison to the joy she felt at this very moment.

Emma did not spare any other thoughts for things, so focused was she on the way Killian felt and tasted and kissed. She had kissed boys before, of course; this was the first time she’d ever kissed a man, however, and he was the only man she ever wanted to kiss. She tried to pour that very feeling into him, hoping against hope that it all meant that perhaps he loved her as she loved him.

“Emma,” he murmured, finally breaking away from her. She gasped, not realizing that one needed breath when kissing, and it occurred to her that she might not be very good at it, a thought that filled her with dismay. She looked up into his eyes and they shone at her as ever they did, but there was something new there this time, something that made her look twice–a bit of a shine, perhaps, or maybe the blue was just a bit bluer than before.   


“Killian, I–”  


“What, love?”  


– _love you_ –

“Missed you terribly,” she whispered, biting her lip at her own cowardice. He smiled softly at her, leaning forward to press his brow to hers.

“I thought of you every day that I was gone,” he murmured, his breath puffing against her lips and making her long to kiss him again. She leaned forward, her lips brushing against his as she spoke, feeling through her chest the way his own chest heaved.  


“Good,” she said, smiling against his mouth and smiling through her whole body. She could feel a tingle begin, a happy little feeling replacing all the worry and despair that had taken residence since he’d left. Her old doubt was there, telling her that it was the drink, telling her that he would leave again, but the way his arms wrapped about her waist and pulled her closer, his breath mingling with hers, his lashes tickling her cheeks, they were that close–those things drowned out the old thoughts. _He_ drowned out her doubt.  


“How I’ve longed to hold you thus,” he whispered, and it nearly undid her to hear the words. Never did she imagine he felt this way, never. She’d never even thought to voice her feelings aloud, so certain was she that it could not be a possibility. 

“I was so afraid of losing you,” she whispered back, her fingers squeezing his shoulders where she was clasping him. She moved her hands to the back of his head and felt like she would burst when he buried his face in her neck. “I–I could not bear it if I lost you.”  


“You needn’t worry about that, love,” he murmured into her skin, making her shiver all the way down her spine, little tingles taking residence in new, lower places. “I’ve survived this long; I daresay you’re stuck with me for a while yet.”  


Emma did not know how to respond to that, so overcome with sensation was she. Instead, she simply nodded, pulling him tighter and massaging the nape of his neck. He sighed happily, his breath tickling her ear, and she smiled, feeling much lighter than she had in years. 

They returned to Misthaven several days later, the three days’ journey somehow taking them an entire week. Emma thought Killian was teasing when he suggested they share a horse the entire way, but a part of her wondered at the sparkle of mischief in his eyes. 

When they arrived at the castle, the Queen and Prince met them at the gate, word of their arrival having spread like wildfire. Emma thought that perhaps Mother was far too relieved to be angry, but Father had no such qualms.

“What were you thinking, young lady? Have you no consideration for your mother? Or for your kingdom? You are to rule one day, Emma. What if something had happened–”

“Nothing happened,” both Emma and her mother said. Killian had to swallow back laughter, the unfortunate consequence of that being gaining the prince’s notice.  


“Lieutenant,” was all he said, however, his eyes raking Killian up and down before turning to look significantly at Emma.  


Despite their combined insistence that nothing untoward had occurred, Emma’s father still demanded to know when to expect the wedding. And as his wife, the Queen, led him away with chastisements that Emma would marry when she was good and ready, the last thing Emma heard was her mother saying that he’d been asking her that same question for years, and that her answer would _always_ be, “Emma and Killian will marry when they’re good and ready.”

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi to me on tumblr--this-too-too-sullied-flesh. thanks for reading!


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